When You Look At Him
by KarinSpleen
Summary: In your eyes, he is very vulnerable.   Daryl Dixon/Glenn, very light slash. Rated for language.


**Fandom**: The Walking Dead (tv series)  
><strong>Title<strong>: When You Look At Him  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 1, 378  
><strong>Pairing<strong>: Daryl Dixon/Glenn  
><strong>Warnings<strong>: Probable ooc-ness, slash, foul language  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: As much as I wish I had these two to myself to make them do dirty, dirty things for my entertainment, I do not. D: Everyone belongs to Robert Kirkman and Co. I own only this work~

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><p>When you look at him, he is very vulnerable.<p>

You don't know if anyone else in camp can see this, but you doubt it; you're pretty sure that they just see a racist redneck that's his brother embodied, violent and short-tempered, cold and mean. The only good he is to them is the walkers he kills and the food he provides. If they had an alternate source, Daryl Dixon would be thereby expendable.

To them, he is nothing. An angry voice, sleeveless shirts, dirt and flannel and a crossbow. Whiskey and a pack-a-day voice, product of Georgia, asscrack of nowhere town. Daddy probably a drunk, mama too, but strong and supportive of her juvie-bound son and the one who, most likely, wouldn't be far behind. He's got that old beat-up truck that you can see him in, in the time before, with a pretty blonde with a twang to rival his, arm around her, driving to a secluded place where he'll make her lilting moans and whimpers of his name sing to high heaven.

They don't even bother; they just try to stay out of his way.

But you, you know different. You've always been on the sidelines, shy and meek and quiet, last kid picked for dodge-ball or whatever stupid sport they were playing in the schoolyard that day or week or month, and always with a grumble of agitation and shame at not being smart enough to avoid having to have _fucking Glenn, the pussy little shit_, on your team. You've always had to watch people, see them interact with people that weren't you. You're able to recognize emotions and feelings, you can analyze body-language like a pro, and with enough observation time, you can understand a person completely.

The Daryl Dixon that people see is not in vain, a large portion of him is truly the redneck stereotype he entertains. You know that he has grown up in the shadow of Merle, trying to live up to be_ bad-as-fuck Merle Dixon's_ kid brother. He barely knew his father, it looks like to you, and you assume that Merle, between trips to juvie and eventually prison and the army, took the place of the man. You like to hope he died valiantly, in war or something, but you have a feeling he either was killed in a bar brawl or of a rotted liver, or he just walked out with some broad one day.

You can tell that the word family to him makes a picture of people like Rick and Lori, how they had a house and a kid and everything perfect, perfect fucking life, perfect fucking marriage. White picket fence, steak dinners, all that shit. He doesn't know what family is, and he's spent his whole life as the broken kid, with only his mama and Merle to help him along. He's terrified of closeness, becoming attached. His excuse is that you can't get attached to anyone in this world, where the dead have found the sudden urge to get up and walk around. He's afraid of getting attached because everyone he's ever loved has left him. You can see it in his eyes. Those beautiful fucking blue eyes, that look so dead in comparison to what you think, what you know, they should be.

He's so vulnerable, so afraid. He's hiding behind the mask, the tough-guy, racist brute. Bar-brawls, hunting, drinking, smoking, big boots and girlfriends that can down more whiskey in 15 minutes than you could in a lifetime. He has no clue what he's doing with you all, he doesn't know why he stayed because _damnit_ they left his brother, the only person he's had in his life, for dead on a rooftop. He just wants to be around people, people who don't hate him or see him as a miniature-Merle, just another kid from the middle of nowhere that isn't going to amount to anything.

He's like a child, almost; so alone and left to himself. You think that maybe Merle said something to him, "_no one will care about you except me_," that made him who he was. Maybe Merle's goal was to make him stronger, tougher, prepare him for the dog-eat-dog world he was born into? In essence, it made him weak.

You almost laugh at this thought. Daryl Dixon and the word weak do not belong together. He'd gut you like a pig if he had any idea that you were doing this, scrutinizing him. You don't understand how he hasn't noticed your wandering eyes and the looks of longing you're pretty sure you're giving him.

There he is, across the camp, skinning squirrels. Daryl Dixon and his fucking squirrels.

All you want to do is fucking... You don't even know.

You've fallen in love with girls before, sure. Well, you think you have. You don't know. There a girl named Penny during high school, a white girl that your parents hated. You lost your virginity to her after prom, and then you broke up because she was going to college in Europe or something. You really didn't care. You don't even remember if you were actually listening to her when she told you.

And then there was some dude named Mark, or something like Mark, in college. You might have loved him. He treated you like a king; the sex was good; he kind of worshipped you, almost. He annoyed you with his clinginess. You wanted someone to fight you sometimes, to get angry with you, who would disagree and not go along with whatever bullshit you said just to make you happy. You broke up with him the second freshman year ended, and he transferred out to a different school. _Good riddance_, you thought. _Patronizing bastard_.

That is the extent of your wonderful love life. The constricting feeling you have in your chest and hands and veins, from your fingers to your toes, is new, though. You've never felt anything like it, and if the romance novels that circulate around the camp that you've been reading have any ounce of truth in them, you're head-over-heels, arse-over-tit, so far fucking gone, you're in love with Daryl freaking Dixon.

You're in love with Daryl Dixon and you have no idea what you should do about it, so you're going to do what you've always done. Just stare and wish and write stories in your head about the perfect relationship you two could never have.

And so, having finally come to terms with your pitiful situation, you've been staring for some undetermined amount of time when your perfect reverie of him loving you back and everything being wonderful and amazing and impossible to describe is broken by his voice. That voice that makes me you melt in one-thousand different ways. He's talking to you.

"Hey kid. C'mere. You should learn to skin, to gut. I'm sick and tired of doing all this fucking work by myself. C'mon, get your lazy ass up."

You smile like an idiot, but you can't even be bothered to care, because that's one of the nicest fucking things to come out of Daryl's mouth, especially directed at you, and maybe there's just a little bit of hope for your perfect relationship in the days and weeks and months that follow the end of the world.

He whispers, now, as you sit next to him and pick up a squirrel and start playing with the fur. Squirrels are really soft; who would've thought.

"You know, someone's gonna catch you getting an eyeful of me someday, kid. You need to learn to be more discrete. You haven't noticed me starin', have ya? After we're done here, I'll teach ya how to do that."

You're not sure whether or not you should laugh, smile, or cry tears of terror or happiness. As you're struggling with your emotions, the smile that you get from him, a genuine fucking smile, is enough emotion for the both of you right now, you decide.

"So," he starts talking and takes the squirrel from you and your hands brush and you can't manage to stifle a girly gasp, which he _thank fucking god _ignores, "you need to make sure there's no burrs in the fur, because once you cut and they get in there, they're never coming out..."

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><p>Okay ladies and gents, my first Walking Dead fic, finished. I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this yet. It's okay, at best. I ship this pairing so hard, and there are so many amazing writers out there for it. I hope I did it justice.<p>

I'm so sorry if these two seem out of character D: Can I use the first attempt excuse? I'd love tips to write Daryl, since it's a huge challenge to me. Writing in second person is a fucking bitch. Can I have tips on that too please? D: I hope it's understandable. I re-read this a few times and had a friend look over it for me, but all mistakes belong to me. If you see any, please point them out!

Constructive criticism, reviews, and flames alike are welcomed and loved D: Thanks in advance~

(ps. hi to all the lovelies on tumblr who gave me the balls to post this :D and to Jessica, for reading it beforehand. ily all.)


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